Jots and Tittles From Lake Flaccid, New York

"Hey, Kids, It's Barabas Munn-Dayne, Our Old Wiry Woodsman Pal From Over in the Placid Little Flaccid City of Lake Flaccid, the Jots & Titties...Oops, er-ah...."
Whatever harm there is in that flaccid head, don't bother me one tit, er-ah, I mean, one damn bit. And yep I'm being "Frankly, My Dear" these days, too, because I'm having to spend time in New York City, my native land, because Lake Flaccid is snowed in and the temperature is below zero most of the sunnier days these days. I turned my lake cabin over to thegrowlingwolf who swore he could make it up there on Amtrak or some way and I gave him the keys to the town's Snowcat and wished him a fond farewell. He went howling off pleased as several Punches on his wolfish ways up into the frozen flaccid forests of Lake Flaccid. He can have his way up there. Nobody in their right mind is left in town...except Cecil the Dog-faced Boy III (the Third)...he's up there; he's hidden out up there, happy all alone. He's so frightening to look at he doesn't wander out much. He especially scares hell out of the laddies and lassies, though ironically he's a powerful motivational speaker and when he does his spiels at like high school assemblies, he does wear a bag over his head. Rumor around town has it that Cecil's very rich, some say from inheriting his grandfather's carnival savings and some claim later on he had made a fortune on his own, especially when he did that big tribute to his grandfather and all the other freaks of his grandfather's time at the Smithsonian. Then in a Shakesperian sort of off-wings writing binge, Cecil III turned his tribute into a one-man show that did some said quiet very well on the summer theater circuit, especially around southern Ohio and eastern Pennsylvania. So the locals all just knew he had money, plus, as a town teenager recalled, the money Ceece had accumulated off the private sales of his book, Doomed With the Face of a God-damn Dog--so he's able to successfully stay indoors hidden away most of the time, even in the mid-stiffest of winters, like this one currently encrusting Lake Flaccid with demon ice, snow, and below-zero temperatures--and besides he's much more scarier now with his wrinkly jowls drooling down off his flat bulldog-broad nose sparked stranger yet by the long thick tufts of albino hair that stick straight up and out of both his ears--yes, he's much, much scarier now in his saging old age than when he was younger and his dog face was sort of still cute and puppyish, you know with playful eyes, like Cecil was actually wagging his ancient tail, or show soulful eyes, like when Cecil lost his mother, Cecilia, the famous Mexican Mohaired Lady from Chihuahua--famous not only for her rather hairy complexion but also for her "Pancho y Juliet" dog act--Cecilia sang while her dogs, Pancho, as Romeo, and Juliet, some said her name was really Julius, as Juliet, acted out the famous balcony scene from Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet. They were a big hit one year at the Lake Flaccid Shakespeare Festival and Joust. Cecil III, I must add, is also in his retirement from show biz a highly respected (at least in the Adirondacks) published poet. Yep. Lake Flaccid attracts poets and paupers and princes and kings (of the canine variety) and ex-hoofers and ex-ice-queens and unsuccessful New York City chicken farmers--

Yes, a dude from New York City, where else, came to Lake Flaccid and started building a chicken ranch there. Claimed he was going to raise free-range chickens in the pure air and with the pure waters of Lake Flaccid. The local yokels all joshed him and railed at him, "You can't raise chickens outdoors around here. They'll freeze to death." But, you know New York City folks when they've got money to waste and are enhanced by that famous big-city self-abusing determination how they are, and this city slicker went ahead and started his chicken ranch in spite of the warnings. He was raising, he said, Rhode Island Reds along with another breed, special breed, he bragged, personally invented breed he swore was the meatiest though most expensive chicken in the world, a pheasant-chicken hybrid he, Mel Fez was his name, called a "Pheaken"--he pronounced it "Fee-kin." He was from Brooklyn I'm sure, thank you.

So that first spring Mel Fez got his property all chicken-ready, and it looked like he might luck out and do all right. We had a fairly sweet spring that year--that was about 1996--temperature hung around a sweet 69 that spring and the sun shone nice and warm and old Mel Fez had thousands of baby chicks hatch that spring. Yeah, he had a hatchery built, you see. You have got to have a hatchery to raise baby chicks whether you're in the wormiest sandy desert shinnery or in icy Lake Flaccid, so he had a hatchery, but these fresh-hatched chicks didn't reach pullet stage until late summer, and then he started fattening them up on corn and molasses and fine caliche gravel and fresh Adirondack spring water--and oh those chickens were treated like royalty, let me bear witness to that. Still the local doubters kept saying, "We'll see." Soon, at Mel's place, the fields were full of free-ranging chickens, both RI Reds and those strange Pheakens. I mean they were everywhere, thousands of chickens.

Well up about the second week that September, one morning, we all woke up around town and around the lake--it had been a bright sunny fairly warm day the day before--and we woke up that morning and I noticed right off the bat how cold it was, as cold as any holy Hell, cold like a deep freeze in my bedroom, and then I went into the bathroom and the water in my flush bucket by the wellhead was frozen solid--I jest, of course, about having to flush my toilet with a bucket of well water--I use lake water instead--hey, it's just an old hippy woodsman joking with you, give me a break--but anyway, I looked out the bathroom window that morning, and, Jesus, I had to wipe my eyes, and then I noticed there was at least two feet of fresh snow on the ground and the wind was howling like a banshee and the snowflakes were free falling thick as hops everywhere, and the wind was catapulting them into stinging bee-like ice crystals as they whipped into your bare face if you tried to go against them. It was cold as a well-digger's rear end, and I looked out at Lake Flaccid and couldn't believe my eyes. Overnight the lake had frozen over, quietly, flaccidly, unobtrusively. I snowshoed out to get the mail and Mel Fez was coming down Deer Gutting Road by my place in his Jeep Cherokee (I know the Cherokees are getting rich from Chrysler paying them rights for using their Tribal name to go on a profit-making war machine--yep, the Jeep is a war machine, the first 4-wheel drive vehicle, named after Popeye's rather marvelous dog he called The Geep).

Popeye was a strange cartoon at first--very Dada, very Surrealistic--like the Abbott and Costello teevee show was later, that sort of comic Dadaism or Surrealism. Dadaistic in their interactions and reactions; surrealistic in the sense of the city they lived in, the jobs they had, the landlord, the girlfriend, the cop on the beat, like Jean-Luc Goddard's Alphaville, starring American expatriate Eddie Constantine and Anna Karina. Beautiful b/w film--unless Ted Turner colorized it in his "ruining American film" stage of self-aggrandizement back after he married Hanoi Jane.

So Mel stopped alongside my mailbox and he hollered for me to get in his Jeep. "You have to come see this," he said as we cracked along crash-crunching down the ploughed road but with snow quickly freshly repiling up on it, deep, filling up the middle of the road, but Mel's Jeep crashed right on through the piles, his windshield wipers clicking away madly, his windshield-heater on high heat keeping the windshield from freezing over. We drove up to the entrance of "Fez Pheaken Farms," turned in, and headed up the long farm road to Mel's concrete-block office building and backroom slaughterhouse. As we made our way up between the snowy fields that the day before had been still partially verdant and lively running free with free-range pullets and roasters and baking hens and that now were a serene white expanse of bubbly fresh swishing-drifting powder snow. Every now and then when you looked long enough at those fields of snowy glare, you suddenly were surprised to realize that some of the piles of drifted snow looked, by their outlines standing up along the horizontal level of those fields, just like god-damn chickens--in fact, I soon discovered on closer inspection, they were in fact chickens. They were Mel's free-range RI Reds and Pheakens. Turns out all of Mel's outdoor free-range chickens had frozen solid in place all across his free-range fields during that freaky flash-frozen night. "I'm ruined, Barabas." "Yeah, Mel, and they probably won't thaw out on their own until spring. Why don't you sell them as fresh frozen chickens? Take them down to Chinatown in New York City--they'll find a way to use them--who knows where chopped chicken comes from in those restaurants and chop suey joints down there." "You bastard, you joke while I'm ruined."

Anyway. Let's start some jottin' and tittling:

--Barack Obama is one interesting dude. Great look at him on a PBS Frontline that was running last night on New York City's PBS channel--in digital, wide-panel, I could see all of the hairs in everybody's nostrils--maybe this new digital scam will have cameradudes and dudettes pulling back from close-up head shots--it's really annoying in baseball where cameramen and women inevitably as they are trained zoom in close to baseball players faces, especially pitchers when they're getting ready to pitch, going through their readying routines--and these trained camera goons zoom in on a pitcher's mug and inevitably that pitcher just as the camera approaches his nostrils and lips hawks up and spits out a huge loogy--they do it every time--hawking up and hurling loogies is a part of their wind-up act--why does the camera have to report that action--always, always, they do it, and with batters, too, right up into their nostrils and, of course, batters spit, too--keeps them focused. Now digital teevee is bragging about how you can see the linemen in football games right up into their faces--you can see them breathing fire, one purveyor of wide-screen digital teevees claims. Who wants to be that close to a smelly human being?--especially a bunch of bloody beef-fed and beefed up, steroid-champed up, farting and sweating and cumming in their jock straps as they street-fight using a game invented in the coalfields of Pennsylvania and first played around the factory towns of Ohio, like Canton, the Canton Bulldogs being a team of factory hands who fought bareknuckle after knocking back a couple of kegs of porter stout on their free time and who fought bareknuckle, too, when they played those first pro football games--without helmets, too--anything went, too--eyegouging, breaking limbs, kicking in the groin. In the old days, there was no passing, only running, and unless you penned a runner down to the "Uncle" stage, he could get loose, get up, and start running again without penalty. That's where the piling on came into football, same as rugby--pigheaded big brawny Germans, Italians, Scotch-Irish, Norwegians, Swedes, Danes played early pro football, even Native American Jim Thorpe, said to be the 20th-century's greatest Olympic athlete ever--and they took Jim's Olympic medals away from him because he was a fucking savage Injun--and didn't give them back to him until within recent history, long after old Jim was dead and gone and had long since quit dropkicking fieldgoals from 50 yards out, or crushing a defensive back, running right over his ass to score, stiffarming right in the face of any defensive man who got in the way (stiffarming so mean in the helmetless days it's why these modern birds wear those sissy facemasks). And Slingin' Sammy Baugh used to play in games with blood streaming down his face from his nose, mouth, and eyes--blood all over his uniform--Slingin' Sammy, one of the toughest motherfuckers to ever play sports--playing into his forties--like George Blanda later in the 70s--playing until he was 52 or three.

--this Frontline on Obama was cool as hell. Wow, the contradictions going on in this guy's life ever since he was a kid. Brilliant African father--an economist, left Mom Obama and little Barack to go to Harvard--ended up back in Africa with many women and seven new Barack step-brothers and sisters over there. And Barack's white mother was a hippy if there ever was one. A hippy girl trying to unite the world, marrying a black man in spite of the white attitudes against it--and marrying an absolutely black black man, as Obama puts it, "a man black as pitch"--and rather ugly as sin, to boot, we might add--but a brilliant thinker--and Obama's mother was a nonconformist protesting free woman, free love, free spirit, and finally Obama's mother divorced Barack Sr. and quickly traveled the world as, what else, a community organizer, one of the best, they say, settling then in Indonesia with the boy Barack Jr., and soon she remarried an Indonesian dude, who became Barack's Muslim stepfather. And when his mother died, Barack was given over to his white grandparents in Hawaii.

--And this show showed the conflict Obama has between his white self and his black self. That's the conflict that is motivating his "Yes, We Can" political attitude, a slogan he's been using since he had the defiant balls to run for the Illinois State Senate from the Southside back when he did so badly against ex-Black Panther, Southside Chicago hero, Bobby Rush--Bill Clinton, for your info, backed Bobby Rush against Obama in that campaign and Rush crushed Obama--the Chicago South Side blacks turned out in a flood against Obama, saying snidely he was a white man in black face as far as they were concerned! It was Obama's first bad defeat, a teaching defeat--teaching him how he wasn't black enough to get elected in an all-black community. They weren't ready to accept Obama's "nonChicagoan" decision to be a Man of All Seasons rather than a black freedom fighter, a uniter like Lincoln rather than a divider like G.W. Bush, a universalist and not a partisan-type guy.

--like at Harvard Law School, where Obama turned against his black backers in favor of the right-wing Conservative (Neo-Cons) Federalist Society--or some such right-wing name, the head of which eventually got Barack editorship of the Harvard Law Review. A black woman lawyer classmate of Obama's said she had depended on him to get her name on the Review editorial staff masthead--very important to her legal career--but when Obama won the election and got the editorship, thanks to the rightwingers, he gave masthead positions to three of the Neo-Cons but refused this woman a shot, only picking one black for his staff--and this woman was pissed at him. She said, that was Obama using his white-side agenda to the advantage of his obvious black-side.

--Obama as a community organizer certainly knows where the money that fuels community organizations comes from. He's an expert, and so is his wife, on who sponsors community projects. He knows who alright; he knows it's: Banks of course. Financial institutions of course. Yep. And television stations. And big corporations like Exxon-Mobil. Like Chevron-Texaco. Like Philip Morris Cigarettes--who have glossened over their evil side by promoting themselves through good ole Kraft Foods and whatever other coverup companies they own. Also, big community funders are Verizon, Intel, IBM--government monies to community organizations is very low percentage. You'll see Obama start investing government billions in community service organizations all across the country, along with whatever corporate billions he can get his hands on, too, getting money being the central part of all his plans, even his foreign plans.

--Bobby Rush, by the way, was a former Black Panther--personally involved in the Black Panther movement with his friend Fred Hampton. Obama couldn't beat a black hero like Bobby Rush, and Obama used his same tactic he's now using on McCain, Hillary, all his former advisaries--he was saying things about Bobby Rush like, "While I respect Bobby Rush's life work and his service to the black community, and do consider him a eminent black man, still I think it's time to reach beyond a black-only stage...blah, blah, blah." It didn't work with Chicago Southside blacks.

--this Frontline bio spelled it out how Obama decided in 2006 with the avid encouragement of outcasted Democratic Senator Tom Daschile and his political nut-crunching strongarm team of political organizers. For director of Obama's new political coalition and as planner and developer for what Obama started calling his "two-year plan," Obama called on his old Chicago political nutbusting white buddy David Axelrod. Axelrod immediately started promoting Barack as the Democratic candidate for the presidency in 2008. Daschile and Axelrod gave Obama free reign to go for the presidency in his own way--to let his white side keep him cool and uncontroversial, to let his black side just be obviously evident in his skin color, his family, and his Chicago Southside experience and Senate constituency.

--Obama's high-as-he-could-possibly-go-given-his-mixed-cultural-heritage is something he started creating and dreaming about in Hawaii while being raised by his, even he said, racist white grandmother--his mother the one who instilled deep within him the fact that he was blessed, Barack means "blessed" in Kenyan, that he was multiculturally special, that he was a world child and not black, not white, but universal. That's what Obama stands for, a universal world, the Bob Marley "One World" concept of cooperation and organization! And Barack Obama truly believes he can pull this universal coalition idea off--though he also knows--his father was an economist--his mother was an community organizer dependent on contributions for her livelihood--he can't pull this off without bales of fresh money--and guess who has all the "fresh" money right now--why the Wall Street criminals: Goldman-Sachs, the Bank of America, J.P. Morgan-Chase, AIG Insurance (remember them?), GMAC [and just the other day, as a tittle, I noticed a new advertiser on television--The Met-Life Bank--can you believe it, Snoopy's a banker now!]--these are the people who have all the money, the wealth--access to our natural resources as well as our taxes and our wilderness lands--and Obama the community organizer, the service man, will have to get that money away from these tight-fisted crooks-in-cahoots--that's his hole card--Obama thinks he knows how to deal with these basically white scumbags because of his experience with them at Harvard Law School and with them in Chicago in his run for the Illinois Senate when he went up and socialized and organized using the University-of-Chicago-and-Hyde-Park whites and Jews up north of his Southside constituency as his white leverages, the Senate seat he won with the ballsqueezing, money-bagging expertise of nutbusters like David Axelrod and Rahm Emmanuel, who organized with him to get him the Illinois State Senator seat and the keynote address at the 2004 convention--which he was prepped for by Axelrod and the Daschile team but which they say he wrote himself.

--when Obama announced his run for the presidency from Springfield, Illinois, Lincoln's hometown, in 2006, he was in the midst of his biggest roadblock yet in terms of his plan--that roadblock came when Fox News got ahold of some televised sermons of the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Obama's connection to God, the pastor of the church that had backed him 100% in his community organizing efforts, Rev. Wright being a top-flight community organizer himself and so, too, his Trinity Church with its vast investments in community organizing--that's why Obama was in that church, not for his religious feelings as a black man as well as a white man. Obama was hung up and hurt badly by Wright's Fox-News-revealed anti-white sermons, especially the "God Damn America" sermon that Fox broadcasted continuously on all its newscasts for several Obama-bamming days in a row. Wright was scheduled to give the invocation in Springfield that day of Obama's presidential announcement but when it came time for the invocation, Obama appeared and gave his speech instead. Wright, they say, was pissed off big time. In anger, Wright went around on all the talk shows defending himself--and to black Americans, Wright's "God Damn America" sermon was brilliantly truthful and not at all embarrassing. Right after this, Obama went to the Dashile bunch and Axelrod and said he wanted to speak on racism and he wanted to do it in Philadelphia. He did, and that speech is now accepted as one of Obama's best so far speeches, a speech they say that saved his political ass, and in fact, it turns out that Rev. Wright was a boon to Obama's campaign, forcing him to face racism and his own blackness before the public.

--Obama is a brilliant conniver, folks. He's going to get filthy rich from this dreamed and planned success. As president of the USA, he'll have his mitts on trillions of dollars--Obama along with Larry "Backwards Thinking" Summers and Paul "I Forgot to Pay My Taxes" Thieler --forget to pay your taxes for one god-damn filing and see how understanding the IRS is about it--these privilege bastards hate taxes--Obama's biggest challenge is taxing these bastards individually to get that excess profit bonus money away from them--they stole it from us--and then taxing these huge merger-profiting corporations like Exxon-Mobil, whose last two-year record-breaking war-profiteering profits could save every family in this country from poverty, from foreclosure, for credit debts--that's the problem facing Obama--how to recover, or steal if he has to, all of We the People's wealth stolen from us by the Bush Neo-Cons, Bush's Wall Street thugs, the ruthless contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan, Unka Dick Cheney and his Halliburton Pirates, the Bush Family itself--We the People of the USA are currently supporting Neil Bush--remember his school cirriculum software he was given 30 million by the No Child Left Behind bullshit; and Jeb of course we've been supporting since he and Neil lucked out of going to prison for their involvement in the savings and loan scandal (Silverado Bank, anybody remember that?); and Marvin Bush has to be living off Federal grants and boondoggles for his fabulous security firm we never hear anything about anymore--yes, the same security firm that was running security at the World Trade Center before 9/11--Marvin's contract with the WTC expiring, listen to this, the very day: 9/11/01. Ah sweet ironies!

--Obama kept Robert Gates on as Sec'y of Defense--yes, what a criminal Gates is, but Obama is a conniver and Robert Gates knows where all that Pentagon money is--a trillion dollars this year alone--Gates knows just where Barack can tap into the Defense Dept. till and rake out billions of excess monies, monies wasted of futile defense projects like that stupid Ronnie Raygun Memorial Star Wars Missile Defense System we're still pumping billions of dollars into.

--So, good people, that's what community organizers do best--hustle monies!

--Good News: Obama picks George Mitchell as his Middle East mediator. A good choice--a universalist like Obama, he is a man promoting coming together--"Come let us reason together"--why, George Mitchell is a foreign community organizer.

--Tooling around the miles and miles of blogs that surround The Daily Growler, I came across this one--from a 17-year-old schoolgirl named Shelby in Skagway, Alaska, just north of Juneau. Check this out--speaking of Popeye and John Ashbery:

shelbyap.blogspot.com/2008/09/la-sestina-de-popeye.html

Pretty damn good ruminating for a 17-year-old; ruminating, like the commenter said, in pretty high grass, a difficult poem well analyzed. Cheers, good Shelby. I liked her art, too.

barabasmunn-daynethejots&tittlesman
for The Daily Growler

"Celebration Time/Come On!"

The "New Kool & the Gang" Hit Washington, District of Corruption
Yes, the staff of The Daily Growler did gang together in our Utter Chaos offices in the sky-absent lower depths of the Blogosphere and watch the whole 300-million-dollar affair--"Oh, Holy Christ," we heard Walter Crackpipe, our aging elder ex-talking head, scream, "why not pass those bucks out among the public? Holy shit. Look at the waste. Look at those Cadillac limos--they must have cost a million each--and look at all the police. They're everywhere. I mean Washington is a police state today. Look how they've penned people in along the mall there...see, they are penned in, they can't move forward or backward, only from side to side--like you control cattle as you lead them into the slaughterhouse. But just look at the luxurious life these conspicuous spenders live." "It's the Power Elite, Walt, you know that," thegrowlingwolf yelped from across the crowded room. "Good thing this happened while we still had analog signals!" Barabas Munn-Dayne blurted out. "Our political Power Elite. Hell yes they live well. Everyone of those people you see there, I mean the Congressmen and women, the Supreme Court Justices...and by the way, how big of a fool is John Roberts?...so everyone of those fat cats...and as I watched old Pappy Bush come waddling in, all decked out in his cashmere topcoat and silk, cashmere, scarf, with his silverheaded cane, I thought about how We the People have made that worthless of piece of shit human filthy rich, and now we're gonna be laying out millions of dollars to his worthless piece of shit son, who was the most impeachable-ever president--except, now that I mull it over, since he stole both his electorial wins, he maybe Constitutionally was never president therefore unimpeachable--but again I say, look at those limos, those 50 or 60 limos that led Obama from having breakfast with Junior and Pickles in what was still their White House (built by slaves)--the first black to ever be a guest in the White House and not a slave or a servant was Booker T. Washington during Teddy Roosevelt's term in office--then not again for decades--until maybe JFK's time--and look at all those black SUVs with the black-out glass all around them, look, there are hundreds of them--with their lights flashing. What does that symbolize? Police state, yes, like Crackpipe said, that symbolizes the power of the police in this country--black SUVs, driven mostly by black guys wearing black shades and black gloves, I kid you not--and it looks so disgustingly silly to me. Screw that obligation to protect the president bullshit. Luci Baines Johnson, the eldest of Lyndon "Big Balls" Johnson's semi-beautiful daughters, said she was 17 when she moved into the White House and what a pain in the ass all the Secret Service and servants were and her old man told her, hey, this isn't your house, it's the people of the USA's house, we're just getting to live here because they elected me president--it's their permanent residence. And I'm thinkin', yeah, and we're supposed to be able to go to the White House and always be welcomed in--yeah sure. And look at how these people just expect to be waited on hand and foot. I watched how Hillbilly Hill and Slick Willie jumped right in a big old limo like they expected it and if it hadn't of been there, like if they'd a been told they had to walk, oh boy, the Power Elite asswhipping you'd'a gotten. Anyway, look at all the wasted millions on just serving these millionaire assholes--and look at the servants, rushing to open doors for their highasses--except Joe Biden opened his own doors, that Scranton po' boy now a millionaire--with sons serving in Iraq and you notice Biden doesn't mention why they are in Iraq and what they are doing over there...like are they in combat or are they privileged officers who are just lying around the Green Zone checking out the latest Mercedes at the Mercedes dealership or maybe having a beer at Harry's Bar or maybe enjoying an evening of karioke with some unveiled ladies of the Levantian evening--so look, we're supporting most of the Biden family--except the schoolmarm Biden, Jilly, who says she such an important teacher she's gonna keep on teachin'--well, hot dog, so we're not supporting her, but we are her two sons and her husband--We the People have made Joe Scranton Biden a Joe Delaware Biden millionaire now, po'boy made good--and then I learn this Eric Holder dude who's gonna be the lawyer in charge of giving us our rights under he laws of the land and who's gonna enforce any laws the financial world breaks--this son of a bitch is a corporate law millionaire--what the hell is he doing in Constitutional law? And I watched that slick rascal, nontaxpaying new Sec'y of the Treasury, that asshole, and now We the People are gonna support his ass, and we're gonna make Hillary Clinton richer now that we've made her Sec'y of State and soon she'll be flying all over the world, buying Ferragamo shoes on her way to a meeting with the Shieks of Araby or wherever Hillbilly Hill will be flying at our expense all around the world that's now her village. And look at all the police--or did I say that. And there wasn't one arrest. Nobody was there for confrontation and assassination, hell no, the cops don't understand such unity of citizens--and usually they are eager to fire at least tons of teargas into so large a gathering. Can you imagine how Bush would have controlled that large a gathering of We the People of the United States who hated his vulgar privileged ass--and Praise de Lawd and pass me some of them biscuits and honey, they booed that little assholes ass when he came sheepishly looking out onto the Capitol podium--and Unka Dick, how clownish did that old wreck of an asshole look--he pulled a muscle in his fucking back packing up made to get his shit out in 1 hour or lose it--and a Federal judge, one of those Neo-Con appointments, ruled in favor of Unka Dick in a case brought to force him to turn his papers over to the National Archives--who cares--it's nothing but scribbling. Whew, I'm worn out."

God, and we're worn out, too. thegrowlingwolf the abominable snowjob man--we jest, of course, hail Caesar to our leading protagonist.

And there did seem to be a lot of waste. Congress people do live very good lives. So do our ex-Presidents. "Did you see 'em snub Jimmy Carter?" Crackpipe again piped up. "Oh yeah, he kissed George Washington with Boobs but he breezed right by Slick Willie and G.H.W.--did you see how he's shufflin' along--probably riddled with gout from eating rich cuisines three-meals-every-damn-day. Like look what happened to Uncle Teddy when he had conspicuously consumed at that luncheon--'Ah, come on, nursey, let old Uncle Teddy have a little swig of that gin. I'm a hearty god-damn paddy Irishman, I'll be nippin' from the bottle long after I'm dead...er-ah, ooooh, BURP, aggha, er-ah, er-ah....' 'Another shot of gin, Senator Kennedy, er...Senator? I think he's passed out. Look how red his face is.' 'Wow, that must be powerful gin old Uncle Teddy has in that flask.' And Robert Byrd, too. The excitement got to his old leathery heathen ass."

And Jimmy Carter snubbed them and they snubbed him. Roselyn snubbed Hillbilly Hill and George Washington with Boobs. Of the three ex-Presidents, Jimmy now seems the most repentent of his presidential sins, and we don't count Junior Bush as ever being elected honestly president, not that any president is elected honestly, not even Obama if you check out who contributed to his campaign and then who actually paid for his inauguration! "And how about Wall Street tumbling another 200 points?" Frannie & Zoe chirped up. Frannie & Zoe look "little girl" hot today in their candy-striper blouse and very short little schoolgirl skirt. "Love those red-striped stockings, you little Minky," charming old Colonel Singing S. Singh just in from his rajah-like estate in the Rangipur sang out to F&Z.

"Don't I recall, Wolfie, your proposing that the Stock Market should bottom out back around 4,000?" Elmer Snowedin, thethedailygrowlerpoetlaureate. "Hey, Elmer," Mister Ed our editing horse neighed out, "did you write us one of those objectionable...er-ah, I mean, objective poems of yours commemorating this inauguration?--by the bye, during the parade, one of those god-damn Indians was ridin' a pretty cute-looking little spotted filly that I wouldn't mind doin' the Dawg with...." That vile statement was followed a series of horse laughs we're getting used to around here.

"All in all, staff, how would you grade the day?" We the Staff asked the Staff.

thegrowlingwolf: "He's a stunning politician, but, that may be all he is. As to how powerful he's gonna be, well, that's to be seen. I wish he hadn't of picked such a team of losers to surround himself with and I wish Joe Biden weren't such a hayseed, but, hell, I was impressed with Obama's image and the character he's trying to emulate, and I gotta give him checkmarks on making people really believe he digs his hot mamma and his perfect daughters--but then on the other hand, this guy has the world on a string if he wants it. Like old Jack Van Impe said t'other night on teevee--isn't Jack in the The Daily Growler Hall of Shams?--if he isn't, I vote him in right now--Barack Obama could be the Anti-Christ--and I hope he is. That'll get rid of these fundamental Christians once and for all--that is if what they believe is TRUE is TRUE! [horse laughs yodeled all around the room]--then bring that on, too--I'd love to look up one day and see those famous hebbin'ly clouds roll in and part and a huge giant Jewish man riding on a big white Garden of Eden horse leading an army of men with wings on their backs would comeforth at us--I assume there are no female angels--only female witches--because we know the DEVIL always tempts men into sin through women [a bunch of 'oogah-oogahs' were heard bouncing off the walls]. And yes I did predict that in order to become realistic, the Dow had to tumble back to around 4000, which it could easily do in the coming months. Check out J. Orlin Grabbe's economy expert--I can't remember his name right now, but click on the late great Mr. Grabbe's link over in The Daily Growler blog list and see if you can find this guys economy charts and shit on that still-running site. You think maybe J. Orlin is faking his death? I do. I hope he is. That's so cool, to fake your own death and get away with it. Attend your own funeral! Wow!"

We think thegrowlingwolf could have gone on for another hour.

waltercrackpipe: "And it's another day in the world and yes the US of A has a cool new president--obviously a president with the people looking to him for miracles. Especially black people. I've never seen black people so happy. Even commercial teevee's own Mr. Big Head Weatherman, Al Roker, reporting from the side of Pennsy Avenue as Obama made the trip down to the White House reviewing stand after his inauguration speech, was like a kid, shouting out at Obama, trying to get him to come over and let Al interview him, and Obama did turn and look over there but whether he knew who the hell Big Head Al Roker was isn't certain, though Al said Obama hollered 'It's warm' over at him--and Al started whooping and jumping up and down and saying, 'I can't believe it, he looked over at me and he said, "It's warm," so I did the first interview with the president,' and Al started whooping and saying 'I can't believe this...waaaahooo!' And even all the commercial teevee talking heads were awed by this 2-million-plus turn out of regular people--people from all over the USA, one dude down from some distant lonely point in Alaska--and several huge families from California--everybody living in the street, just to be there, just to be on the grounds within proximity if needs be, people backed up all over that area of the District of Corruption. It was an awesome sight and Obama was Kool & the Gang, man, and he and his woman are now the King and Queen of the Big Hop! Whoooooooey!"

Overdramatic! Maybe that's the best criticism of the whole pompous & circumstance affair. Oh well, at least we have a real president again. We wish him Growler luck. "You can make it if you try." And as a PS: Aretha Franklin has no equals; 'bout as American as you can get.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

The Notebooks of a Carnival Monkey, ETC.

The Notebooks of a Carnival Monkey
Book 1
Just danced my little ass off for a mousy looking human woman and her skaggy looking child. I was told it was the human big-star, Madonna. She's got a spare tire around her middle--big thighs, too--and she looked like she was flopping when she was so egotistically dancing to the little organ I grind while I'm dancing. I outdanced her ass. She threw god-damn fifteen cents in pennies in my cup. "Bitch!" I scream, but she didn't understand my dialect.

Book 2
Britney Spears booked me and Benny the Chinner for a private party at one of her fabby digs. Professor Glenn drove us there in his new Ford. He was bragging all the way to Miss Spears fabby house how he hornswaggled the Ford dealer down to 50% off the original price. "Plus, the broke son of a bitch threw in Satellite radio and 4 Bose speakers. They're desperate, I tell ya, desperate."

We got to Britney's fabby house around one pm. "Pool Party" it said on a sign hanging over the front door. "Follow the Arrows." So we followed the arrows around through a side gate and came out into this huge back area with this huge kidney-shaped swimming pool--hey, I got kidneys just like yours, humans--I piss just like you do, pals! My old lady fucks just like yours does, macho human males. Anyway, Britney had the pool area set up like a carnival. Clowns everywhere. God, I hate clowns. Especially those balloon-animal-making bastards. Kids'll fall for anything wearing a bulbous red nose and flappy shoes. I checked my little outfit in a glass sliding door that led into Britney's fabby house. I looked pretty good. My military jacket looked spiffy as hell. My fez was snappy. Damn, I looked good. And I'd written some new tunes for my little organ, so I was ready to kick some carnival ass.

Professor Glenn then said, "Noodles, you go on after Mr. Po the Lice Man." God, not Mr. Po, that sleazy bastard. A lice act. Who the hell can even see a lice act? Lice drive me instinctually bananas. I mean, come on, groomin's one of my drives; I see lice, I wanna pick 'em up and eat 'em. I ate a hundred lice one time--almost put old Po out of business. And Noodles! God I hate Noodles! He's a poodle who walks a high wire and walks like a human on his hind legs while he balances a couple'a balls on his nose. He looks stupid as hell. I can walk like a human. Hell, I can think like a human. I can understand human speech. Yakity. Yakity. Yakity. "Who's after Mr. Po, Boss?" I asked Professor Glenn. "Britney says she doesn't care for a monkey act." "Whaaa! Then what the hell am I doing here?" "Sorry, Little Joe, but that's Miss Spears's request. She says she's in a nonmonkey mood right now." "Bitch. Can I talk to her?" "Shit, Little Joe, humans can't understand you. You sound like you're mocking humans when you try and jabber with them." "How come you can understand me?" "I taught you everything you know, Little Joe. You know that. I love you like a son." "Oh shit, the shit's getting deep in here, brother!"

I searched out Britney. She was smokin' dope with a guy who looked just like Mickey Mouse, the Disney owner, I think. Damn, that'd be cool if he saw my act and put me on the Mickey Mouse Club--holy shit, that would make my day, baby. "Hey, Mick, remember me?" Come on, you son of a bitch. Professor Glenn followed behind me. "Little Joe, that Mickey Mouse is a human in a Mickey Mouse costume. He can't understand your jabber." "Well, come on then, Glenn, you get me on this Britney Spears thing so the Mick can check out my act and maybe get me on the Disney Channel." "Not likely, Little Joe. Organ-grinding monkeys remind humans of the Old World." "Whaaaa! What old world? I was born in Baltimore, dammit, what old world?" "Little Joe, your act. It's like Old World Italian--European--the organ-grinder's monkey." "Hey, this monkey grinds his own organ...." "No, I'm just telling you, Little Joe, your act is getting corny. Kids wanna play with your organ but they don't find you cute at all. In fact, I been meaning to train you to become a female impersonator." "Whaaaaa!" "Yeah, I think a monkey Judy Garland would be cute as hell." "Give me a god-damn break." "I'm tryin' to give you a break, Little Joe."

Book 3
I feel silly as hell in this new costume Professor Glenn has me donning. Holy shit. It's a business-looking man's suit, but it isn't a man's suit, it's a replica of that suit-looking suit Judy Garland wore during her London comeback concerts. "Am I supposed to sing?" "Naw," Professor Glenn said, "you just mouth the words and we'll run a real Judy Garland loop behind you over the sound system--'Over the Rainbow's' your big finale--you got it down?" "Got it down. I'm a pro, sport, I don't do nothing without gettin' it down, and gettin' down pat, too." "So we start off with a long monolog--you know, Judy spieling about her life and her this and that...." "And I've gotta be mouthin' all of that, too. That's a long boring ass cry for help, brother." "You can do it, Little Joe. Believe me, this is gonna cause a riot!" "Jesus, I hope you're right. I feel like the ultimate fool in this get up."

Book 4
By god, the Judy Garland thing is going over bigger than I ever imagined. Last night at Freddy's Cabaret in New York City, I wowed their asses--those dudes were laughing their gay asses off over my little act. "Judy never looked so good," I heard one dude say to his lover. Fuck no, I thought, Judy never looked so real. She was a monkey woman, wasn't she?"

Book 5
"What the hell you mean you've hired a monkey to play Mickey Rooney! This is getting, like
John Wayne once said, 'Regod-damn-diculous'." "Come on, Little Joe, it'd be cute, a Mickey
Rooney monkey with you--you two could do some farm-barn musicals like Judy and Mickey did back in the late 1930s--boy, were they hot." "Professor Glenn, I let you talk me into this Judy Garland impersonating shit, but I'll be damn if I work with another god-damn monkey...who are you thinking about?" "Mitch the Magnificent." "Mitch the Magnificent, that phony piece of crap. I mean, Jesus X Christ. Isn't that the monkey who does that Houdini death-defying water trick?" "Yeah, that's him. He's a thespian, too, though." "Never, I say, never, never, never." "Ah come on, be a sport." "Never."

Book 6
Professor Glenn hired Mitch the Magnificent alright but not as Mickey Rooney. Whew that was close. I dig this Judy Garland act and I don't want it fucked up with a Mickey Rooney character buggin' my ass. Would this bastard get to grab my ass or try and kiss me! NEVER. I'm getting good at Judy, boy howdy, I am. Professor Glenn gave me some uppers like Warner Bros. used to pump into Judy to keep her putting out movies while she was hot box office. Whew, I'm on fire on those uppers and playing Judy Garland to the fucking hilt. I'm laughing my ass off. Professor Glenn has Mitch dressed up like Evel Knievel, you know, a stars-spangled cape--and then he trots out this little red motorcycle. Yeah, a real motorcycle. You should see this stupid Mitch. He thinks he's gonna upstage me! Maybe Judy Garland'll take over that motorcycle. How 'bout a flying Judy! Don't monkey around with me! I ain't your average monkey.
________________________________________________________________
Levity
I mean everyone's so serious about this Obama inauguration. Hell yes, I'd like to be there. Stevie Wonder last night at Obama's mall concert was the best. He may be one of the best musicians to have happened to us in our lifetime. Talented motherfucker that Stevie.

One problem I have is this David Foster. Where in the holy hell did he come from? He wrote this "We Are America the Beautiful," or some such song, Will I Am said they wrote it together--and let me tell you, folks--it was really crappy. I ponder long and heavy over where these talentless goofs like this Foster guy or Josh Groban come from--Will I Am can't sing for shit and the tune was really redundant--the same lines over and over. A much more appropriate celebration was given by Pete Seeger, that old son of a bitch, and he got the whole shee-bang to singing "This Land Is Your Land," and he added in his workingman lyrics, too. What a talent, even though he is a folky--he's a real folky. It's in Pete's DNA to be a folky.

I got a comment about my proclaiming Josh Groban singing with an "unknown black chick." The commenter said this black chick, Heather something, was a big Broadway star--in The Lion King. The commenter doesn't know how I feel about Broadway. Especially the Disney invaded and occupied Broadway, of which The Lion King is their biggest moneymaker. Yet, like all Disney fables, The Lion King is all about royalty and masters and, to me, isn't very African at all. The woman who did it for Mickey Mouse was a white chick. Sorry, but a Broadway resume doesn't impress me. Broadway tunes are too easily parodied. Besides, Broadway is so full of Brit Vaudeville shit. Sorry, Broadway ain't my bag.

And it was MLK Day and I did dig Martin Luther King when I lived in New Orleans and my wife was active in CORE and we saw Dick Gregory and Julius Lester and Huey Newton all the time, and then I remember the Selma March--and my wife and I gathered up information about where to meet the march, where it was starting, and once we got there who to contact. We knew King liked to put white people with him on the front line of the march. And I remember the White Citizen's Council's phone lines that called anybody marching with "the coons" in Selma subject to being the target for a bunch of good ole boys out "Coon" hunting. We were comfortable in New Orleans. There hadn't been much trouble at all, just a little revolt by the white Catholics to school integration, though that passed. So did the sit-ins on Canal Street, at Woolworth's--yes, there was white backlash, but it didn't last, it petered out, and it looked good around the time of the Civil Rights Act--it looked like New Orleans was integrating without a hitch, though, yes, the Power Elite white assholes worked behind the scenes to undo all that the Civil Rights Movement had gained.

I remember the day Martin got shot. Our friend the head nurse, a black woman, called us and she was hysterical. "How could they kill this man? Why of all the men, why him? Wasn't he righteous?" We held a memorial service that night at our jam session for Doctor King--we played Nina Simone's "Why Did They Kill the Man of Love?"--and then we played some Memphis blues--and then all the women started crying and we went home and went to bed. Then it seemed like just a short time later these same insurgents shot RFK in L.A. All these assassins the same, madmen, Sirhan Sirhan, a crazy Arab dude who some people say was hypnotized when they arrested him--he's still alive and well in the California prison system.

So we listened to Martin's Riverside Church speech against the Viet Nam War. Then we listened to the Birmingham Boycott speech. Then we topped it off with the March on Washington speech. Martin's dream coming true when Obama takes the oath TOMORROW!

We have packed our cynicism away in the hall closet and instead we are keeping our fingers and toes crossed and "hopin'" for at least an effort for good and peace and assimilation.

Obama's into Hollywood stars, too--for his "girls" sake he says. Amazing how movie stars have the privilege of just attaching themselves to presidents. Like Barbra Streisand they said used to call the White House and bullshit with Billy Jeff Clinton.

I still wonder why Josh Groban and this David Foster! I'm so far behind the times. I swear, I'd never heard of David Foster until about two weeks ago.

theoptimisticgrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

Always on a Sunday and It Really Is Sunday in Spite of the Date on This Blog

On a Hill Far Away
I have been discombobulated (one of my father's favorite words) over the past few days. The Wolf Moon hath ceased its lycanthropic ( λυκάνθρωπος) sailing and now the moon is back in the good graces of the Sun--"Let its ever lovin' light shine on me"--a release from the prison of the Wolf Moon's grasp--the Wolf Moon a favorite of witches, vixens, covens, and martyrs--none of which I am a practitioner of. I'm only a practitioner of a raving maniacy that comes from having to be a writer in a changing time when published books are becoming like cassettes, vhs, and analog tv, things of the past--a new publishing world is opening up that is totally computerized and highly competitive--I mean, I would feel so lonely without my computers--but I still have to write in spite of writing becoming a mass media. And even though the paradise of the old-time writers is now the hell of the avant garde, I still roaringly praise de lawd of de writers, and ask for more Parks sausages, PLEEZ (I'd like a side of pure cane syrup with that, too, PLEEZ), for making me what I am, a god-damn writer, cathartic or otherwise. I am a worshipper of the words that have accumulated in my brain's attic over many generations of generated words--words that have accumulated in my brain's word files--and these words are the little gods, goddesses, muses, witches, and impish demons in my thinking life. Seeing my thoughts blurting out at me from a once-blank-white Microsoft Word new file page gives me reason to fly high above the norm--and I roar: LET 'EM BLURT!--let them blurt as printed words--in black font, red font, whatever colors of the rainbow or the hyperpalettes--hell, even gnostically translated into flipped-meaning words--games writers play--and I read my self-published words over and over and eventually get very pompous when I feel good and safe about their arrangement on the page and finally what the heck they are combining into as a chorus. Vain of me--but I say, so what! I like being vain. I knew a woman once who used to sing that song, "You're So Vain," in a whispering voice to me, a song that Carly Simon wrote after Mick Jagger had screwed her and then like the Jolly Tinker of the medieval ballad, Mick shouldered up his load and went whistling off down the road on his way to tinker with his next conquered vestibule of love [or was that Carly Simon's "Nobody Does It Better" that woman used to sing to me in those mornings when Electra was blessing me?]. And I read my own words and then I say, "A job well done, Wolfie, my lad," and then I cruise around my Alexandrine library and I pick up a stray book and soon I'm trying to relate what I'm reading in that book with the books I'm reading in other places and how all this reading relates to all my writing--reading really is FUNdamental, it really is.

Like I have books scattered all over my place--in my bathroom: I'm reading three books in there. Besides Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel, my bathroom books include Mary Austin's Earth Horizon, a book I've read two times already in my life--the first time in Santa Fe, New Mexico, sitting in a dry arroyo just to the rear of the house she once owned and lived in there, right up the Camino del Monte Sol from my house. Whatsoever, I find this book so fascinating I am reading it again, following Mary Austin from Southern Illinois in the mid-1800s on out to the turn-of-the-20th-century Owens Valley in eastern California, due northeast of L.A., a gorgeous valley that was once a Garden of Eden-type paradise, with a huge clearwater, mountain-snow-fed lake that let water out to nourish many orchards and farmlands, a beautiful valley surrounded on the west by the Sierra Nevada mountains and on the east by Death Valley and the Death Valley Mountain Range, with the highest of all those mountains, Mount Whitney, aloofly gazing down on that once-lush valley now a ruined and barren desert--a paradise until a man named Mullholland in Los Angeles diverted the Los Angeles River so that it took away Lake Owens's water source and Lake Owens eventually dried up and remains a dry lake bed to this day--famous now for the red color of the bed--caused by a red algae that lives in the saline slag that covers the old lake floor--but the story of the drying up of Lake Owens has been told by better writers than I--plus it was immortalized momentarily (until it's forgotten) by the movie Chinatown. Here's a 2005 article from Grist about the once-mighty Lake Owens:

www.grist.org/news/maindish/2005/01/19/maisel/

The other book I'm reading in the bathroom is Jose Ortega y Gasset's Revolt of the Masses all about how qualitative minorities are better than quantitative multitudes (the masses)--I think, Jose, this can also be compared to qualitative and quantitative thinking in general. Giving up quality for quantity. Sounds like David Stockman and Reaganomics (and outsourcing). Sounds like the computerized models of qualitative and quantitative physics. Here's a beautiful layout of the differences in the terms in terms of research from Del Siegle at the University of Connecticut (Del is a Social Scientist):

www.gifted.uconn.edu/siegle/research/Qualitative/qualquan.htm

Down in my music studio I'm reading Molly Haskell's From Reverence to Rape at the insistence of the woman in my life. And up in my loft by my bed, forget it--I'm reading 20 books at once including an Alice Walker novel Jazz, about the "jazz" a strong black woman can put on a girlizing black man, a handsome black man selling women's hair products; about a pissed off cheated-on wife who went to the funeral of her husband's girl lover and stabbed her with a butcher knife just to make sure she was dead and out of her and her husband's life. And then comes a dialog with the dead girl's mother. Brilliant writing/brilliant book. And up in my loft bed, too, are several of Albert Murray's great blues-idiom books, one I just finished, Stompin' the Blues, a book that should be the Bible of the blues-idiom. Brilliant writer Albert Murray; my kind of thinker; we share similar experiences--on parallel lines, yes, but still close enough to each other's experiences that I can certainly follow Mr. Murray's way of thinking as easily as I can understand a William Faulkner novel for the same strange reasons. And up in my loft are my books on Charles Ives, including his own Essays Before a Sonata. And, of course, my Gestalt Psychology Bible is always right there by my side when I need to check the Good Book for spiritual and supranatural messages (I jest, of course). But there is always a new book calling out for me to read it; and then there are the hundreds upon hundreds of writers that I've never read, both ancient and modern--and there are contemporary writers writing their asses off that I will probably never read. For instance, a friend gave me Charlie Stella's Shakedown to read and like with a Danielle Steele or a Steven King novel I got through the first paragraph and had to put it down the writing was so vulgar and bad. I'm not into New York City punk-Mafia-goon imitator writers, copycats of Mario Puzo, who to me was a big fat putz whose best work reminded me of a Playboy short story turned novel--and yes I know, he wrote The Godfather, which to me, and I'm sure it was to Molly Haskell, too, was a glorification of a bunch of Italian peasant male fools who are so neurotic and insecure the greatest achievements in their lives are the murders and assassinations of foes or friends or whoever doesn't follow the Sicilian-Italian peasant code of allegiance to the Godfather, the Holy Father, the Big Daddy, Catholicism in the crime business. So these writers sell big and get to live out the short years remaining to them rich and privileged in places like Vegas and L.A. I used to be amused by professors in college who tried to convince me that Raymond Chandler was a great American writer. Sorry, but I couldn't see it.

Contemporary youth doesn't impress me. It has allowed its producer idols to misdirect it. White kids are now totally Europeanized by their respect of Brit rock and world musics and seeing what I call folk musics as progressive musics. Even to the point of what they read! And what do they read! They don't read much at all--or if they do read it's something simple like text messages; in fact, with today's young folks, the less they read the quicker they get the message. Dig?
_____________________________________________________________
A Definitive Look at the Beautiful Word "Dig"
dig (dg)

v. dug (dg), dig·ging, digs

v.tr.

1. To break up, turn over, or remove (earth or sand, for example), as with a shovel, spade, or snout, or with claws, paws or hands.

2.

a. To make or form by removing earth or other material: dig a trench; dug my way out of the snow.

b. To prepare (soil) by loosening or cultivating.

3.

a. To obtain or unearth by digging: dig coal out of a seam; dug potatoes from a field.

b. To obtain or find by an action similar to digging: dug a dollar out of his pocket; dug the puck out of the corner.

4. To learn or discover by careful research or investigation: dug up the evidence; dug out the real facts.

5. To force down and into something; thrust: dug his foot in the ground.

6. To poke or prod: dug me in the ribs.

7. Sports To strike or redirect (a ball) just before it hits the ground, as in tennis or volleyball.

8. Slang

a. To understand fully: Do you dig what I mean?

b. To like, enjoy, or appreciate: "They really dig our music and, daddy, I dig swinging for them" Louis Armstrong.

c. To take notice of: Dig that wild outfit.

v.intr.

1. To loosen, turn over, or remove earth or other material.

2. To make one's way by or as if by pushing aside or removing material: dug through the files.

3. Slang To have understanding: Do you dig?

n.

1. A poke or thrust: a sharp dig in the ribs.

2. A sarcastic, taunting remark; a gibe.

3. An archaeological excavation.

4. Sports An act or an instance of digging a ball.

5. digs Lodgings.

Phrasal Verb:

dig in

1. To dig trenches for protection.

2. To hold on stubbornly, as to a position; entrench oneself.

3.

a. To begin to work intensively.

b. To begin to eat heartily.

Idioms:

dig in (one's) heels

To resist opposition stubbornly; refuse to yield or compromise.

dig it out

Slang To run as fast as one can, especially as a base runner in baseball. [I never heard this!]

---

[Middle English diggen; perhaps akin to Old French digue, dike, trench; see dhg^w- in Indo-European roots. V., tr., sense 8 and intr., sense 3, perhaps influenced by Wolof degg, to hear, find out, understand, or Irish Gaelic tuigim, I understand.]
________________________________________________________________

Fuck Digital Teevee
I am seriously contemplating doing away with television in my life with this coming farce of doing away with analog signals and forcing the whole country to convert our obsolete sets to be able to receive digital signals or buy new sets (digital teevees much more expensive than analogs). By the bye, some musicians feel analog tape preserved sounds better than CDs or DVDs. I have a huge CD collection that a lot of my CDs are not holding the groove--disintegrating in terms of containing the digital transfers of sounds). Ironically, I found a pile of cassette tapes in a corner on the darkest and dankest area of my floor, covered in fuel oil dirt, dust, and dust mite kingdoms. I pulled out one, a Wardell Gray (yeah, I know, Who?) tape, cleaned it off, took out the tape, put it in my cassette deck, and it played divinely, in beautiful mono. I just got a batch of CDs I made for an album of my best stuff I'm producing and not one of them will play on my CD decks--they suddenly start skipping and slurring--and, yes, I know, they tell me the blank CDs they were dubbed onto were probably no good. And JVC (Japan Victor Company) have said they are stopping production of all vhs blank tapes now. Everything's gonna be digital now. Hot damn. And yes I know, I can download beautiful stereo shit onto iTunes (what happened to Real players, remember them?), but still, I like holding a real book when I'm reading and I like having a real album in my hands, with liner notes and personnel information, when I'm listening to music.

On the Otherhand, I May Buy a New Teevee
I watched Obama's speech in Philadelphia this [Saturday] morning before he boarded his special train to head for Washington, D.C., and his inauguration (estimates of 2 million they say may show up for this unprecedented affair. Several thousand in attendance will be Secret Service, FBI, CIA, Washington Police goons--they say D.C. today is like a damn fortress).

This was one of Obama's best speeches yet, I think--though he did mumble-bumble occasionally which puts his timing off--but it was an encouraging speech in terms of doubting his honesty. He's weird in his approach to enemies. Adelaide Sanford says this is an African tribal way of handling opponents and enemies. Her idea says yes hire the men who wrecked our economy to fix it since they know how they fucked it up; therefore shouldn't they be the best at putting it back together again--now unfuck-it-up! I don't know if this will work but you gotta give the guy big Es for effort right now. I'm still cynical. Too many Clintons and Neo-Cons surrounding him for me, but I do wish him well and hope this guy can pull off his idea of Change. Anything's better than Bush Junior, as thedailygrowlerhousepianist tells me.

This is reading like a young silly girl's blog--"Ooooh, Britney was so hot last night. Ronnie tried to kiss me. Dee-Dee says she is jealous I have such cool boyfriends."

thegrowlingwolf as a young silly girl. As far as Molly Haskell's concerned, I'm a god-damn male character trying to live up to the emulation and expectations of my sportin' daddy friends and my tale-spinning male-competitive friends. Yes, Molly, you're write, as a male writer I find it hard to give girlish qualities to my female characters, which I take from real females. Of course, all my writing is from a male point of view. Do gay writers write more respectful of how women want to be written about? Is a woman a male turned inside out?

I am in limbo at the moment. I haven't even felt like writing over the past week, though I have written, concrete hard stuff, and a couple of poems, having to keep on writing every day of the week, even if what I write, as William Saroyan said, is gibberish.

Most of what I write may never see the light of day. Even this blog is beginning to make me want to hide it somewhere--make it disappear into a hidden cove somewhere off in the digital hereafter. I haven't decided yet whether or not this blog adventure is really worth the time & effort--except like I said, in a cathartic way--yet, I'm compelled to keep publishing some kind of blog. I've been contemplating on the encouragement of my musician friends to start a music-oriented blog, a serious blog, you know, written with the most qualitative of respect for the music I and several thousand others are still devoted to. No fictional bullshit like's on this blog. Can you see the Huffington Post admitting it had a horse for an editor? I'm sick of seriousness; that's why I (with the help of two other fiends) started this "fictional reality" blog and cast my breads upon its waters.

And a final disturbing note: I just saw where Josh Groban is going to sing with some unknown black chick at Obama's inauguration. Where the hell did Josh Groban come from? He's sucks so bad; yet he's everywhere. I can't stand the little prick! He looks like he should be playing a klezmer clarinet in a Jewish social club. And he's so creepy when he's being idolized by giggling silly girls or millionaire teevee talk show babes who adore him. He reminds me of John Tesch, another talentless boob whose popularity I don't understand. Both these jerks have been given PBS specials--why I ask? Yanni, too. I hate fops. And fops in music are the worst. One of the greatest ever American musicians died in relative unnotice (only the jazz aficios mourned Freddie's loss) a week ago, Freddie Hubbard. Listen to Freddie blow out his song. Freddie weren't no fop and that's for sure. If you think Freddie's a fop, you can, like he told a bunch of German fops from the stage, "kiss his black ass." Blow, Freddie, blow.

thetappedoutgrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

From antifascist calling [see my blog list at right of post], a Remembrance of BCCI and Its Involvement in Black Market Nuclear Weapons and Aiding Terrorists
BCCI, the CIA and Nuclear Proliferation

During the 1970s, the Safari Club, a secret cabal of intelligence agencies including France, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, the Shah's Iran, Morocco and the United States, decided that it required a network of banks to help launder illicit funds and finance intelligence operations, according to investigative journalist John Cooley's account in Unholy Wars. With the blessings of George H. W. Bush, then Director of the CIA, the task fell to Saudi Intelligence Minister Kamal Adham.

Within the space of a few years, Adham helped transform Agha Hasan Abedi's small Pakistani merchant bank into the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (BCCI). According to investigative journalist Joseph Trento's account in Prelude to Terror, under Adham's guidance Abedi created "a world-wide money-laundering machine, buying banks around the world to create the biggest clandestine money network in history." Indeed, BCCI was a major player in the Iran-Contra scandal of the 1980s, with powerful American intelligence officials deeply involved in the drugs-for-guns financing of the Nicaraguan Contras and Afghanistan's "holy warriors."

In 1991, Time Magazine described BCCI as not just a bank but also as "a global intelligence operation and a Mafia-like enforcement squad. Operating primarily out of the bank's offices in Karachi, Pakistan, the 1,500-employee black network has used sophisticated spy equipment and techniques, along with bribery, extortion, kidnapping and even, by some accounts, murder. The black network--so named by its own members--stops at almost nothing to further the bank’s aims the world over."

While the United States was pouring billions of dollars in aid to finance drug- and organized crime-linked "holy warriors" in Afghanistan such as Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, much of the money was actually siphoned off by the ISI. Sarkis Soghanalian, a "middleman" profiting from American largess, told Trento that most of the money flowing into Pakistan was diverted into BCCI accounts controlled by the Army and ISI and then distributed to A. Q. Khan's weapons program and proliferation network.

According to Adrian Levy and Catherine Scott-Clark's account in Deception: Pakistan, the United States and the Secret Trade in Nuclear Weapons, Abedi created a "charity" called the BCCI Foundation. Pakistani Finance Minister Ghulam Ishaq Khan granted it tax-free status while simultaneously serving as the foundation's chairman and overseeing finances for Khan Research Laboratories in Kahuta.

Under the Wolf Moon

"Looking a Wolf Moon Right in the Eye" tgw 2008
That Ol' Wolf Moon and the Righteous Blues
I went up on the roof with my camcorder. It was 5:45 am. Long before sunrise. The moonlight was thick and halo-glowing all around me as I stepped out onto the roof, swimming in dreamy moonlight as it was reflected off the black-canvas background of the sky. And the moonlight that followed the already reflected moonlight, that extrawave of moonlight, was reflected off the skyline of Midtown Manhattan that encircled me. And I was all alone in this conclave of moonlit skyscrapers, the Empire State Building god-awesomely lunging up and out at me from over me, wearing an orange-light-bulb-lit crown. And I went across the roof west and the whole expanse of Midtown Manhattan West opened up to me and there it was skidding low in the sky crossing across my southern view, low in the arcing up of the vast darkness lying out from me southwest--and I zoomed in on the orange-flaring Wolf Moon as it lummoxed Wolf Man creepily through the ice-frosty-smoke of the cold morning fog sweeping into town from off New York Harbor. And I filmed the Wolf Moon, the moon at its fullest. And I worshipped my god moon out there in that cold darkness, just the Wolf Man and the old Wolf Moon in harmony. The Wolf Moon, a bisexual moon really. But a virginal sight, too. The Moon is silver and sheds forth its silver tears to be buried in our Earth's rocks. I raise my big silver ring with the malachite rock center and I let it smile back at its fountainhead. And I can feel that Wolf Moon effect my electromagnetic waves, effecting my dance step, my wanting to howl, to sing along with that Ol' Wolf Moon a good happy blues--how it's so good to be alive and wintry frisky in this otherwise antipeaceful mess of a human world. The human world that is choking the life out of its Mother Earth; the human world that is intent on throttling the life out of itself because instinctually it doesn't feel at home with nature! Ocean Archeologists are now saying human life may have begun deep down in the trenches of that mysterious mountain range with peaks up to 15,000-feet high that runs like a quavering belt of massive rocky crags 20,000-feet below the ocean surface around the midsection of the Earth. They believe human life evolved upwards toward the sun from around vents way down there 20,000 feet in the pitch-dark deep, vents these Oceanologists call "Black Smokers"--around which are living creatures who are surviving without sunlight, making sunlight in their bodies out of toxic sulphurous gases thus making some evolutionists brave enough to say life doesn't come from sunlight (life doesn't need sunlight) at all but rather it can survive where it comes from 20,000-feet down in the pitch-dark dominions of the mountain range under the sea! Life, it seems, actually evolves from the hot waters that volcanically shoot up steamily from the Earth's magma core as it shoots its hot waters up out of these black smoking vents, these Black Smokers. Of course this symbolizes how we all emerged from the pits of Hell. Of course, Heaven was toward the distant sunlight that perhaps our earliest undersea eyeless (in Gaza--whewwww, how prophetic!!! Aldous! Aldous!) ancestors instinctively had an urge to sail heavenward toward a distant unseen light that must be up there in world darkness somewhere--that perhaps place of salvation from eternal darkness just safely above eternal Hell fires. What's faith after all? Faith that there is something there somewhere that makes sense, which is all salvation is, sense! Good sense! Not necessarily common sense, though we need that, too, as a foundation, but sense based on knowledge and wisdom. Knowledge that makes our brains like mouse traps. We read a good idea and we've got our brains set and ready to pounce and BAM! our brains don't let sensible knowledge get by them. Our brains rule our emotions....

Soon this vast city will really explode awake. The Wolf Moon currently is sailing off west down at the western tip end of West 31st Street, a straight shot right over the Hudson River into Hoboken, New Jersey, and out over the Jersey Hills, sinking Asiaward off over the Oranges to finally be burnt away by the force of the Star God Sun, the Moon to jump the brink of the horizon and be gone off into the blazing sunlight's takeover of the sky--it happens around 10:30 am. By then the noise will have drowned out any romantic thoughts that the Ol' Wolf Moon may have restored in me. The construction site nextdoor to my building is back to rattling the windows of the neighborhood with their little Caterpillar demon machine that cracks open the skulls of the elder concrete walls surrounding that site left from the 100-year-old structures they demolished there.

Glorious noise. And I'm back in my Admiral Stockdale fuck-hope-there's-only-faith-in-yourself mode. I can take any mental or physical punishment in this state. Like, our great commander in chief, G.W. "Mission Accomplished" Bush, said at that one brave moment when he was trying to scare the shit out of us by saying Al Queda had the capability of attacking New York City with nuclear weapons using drone aircraft piloted over here by remote control, the evil invention of that military genius Saddam Hussein--the military mastermind who locked horns with his Persian enemy, Iran, for 12 years, at what a cost to life and limb, but still this military genius saved enough to get his drone airforce in invincible shape to rain nuclear terror over the USA? (I facetiously wonder who supplied Saddam Hussein with his weapons during that long war he had with those wily Persians? Hummmm. Tough question, right?) So, like G.W. "I'm Am Not a War Criminal" Bush said about that Al Queda-Iraq drone air attack I can say about the noise attack I'm fixing to have to suffer the day long through, "BRING IT ON"--you goddam right, bring it on!

I fade gently off myself off West following in reverie that Ol' Wolf Moon, listening to Roy Harris's Symphony #6, as I do--that's the symphony they call his "Folk Song Symphony" because Roy has filled it full of American folk songs--I just heard "Don't Bury Me on the Lone Prairie" in it--a big chorus and full ork version that rose to lumbering tumbleweed-rolling power against the winds of destruction, the winds that wipe out anything in their way when it's madly wild and insane enough, unless human beings learn how to control it, which they never have, by planting hedge rows and then the right kind of crops, doing the right kind of farming, which they didn't do, and doing the right kind of ranching, also which they didn't do, of course, and of course, and of course. So, they had what they called a "Dust Bowl" out on the Lone Prairie back right after the Great Depression had made a joke of hope, back in time catching my mother and father of guard since they had been Jazz Age kids, he a young stud and she a flapper girl and they were partiers and gay blades--then the Great Depression put an end to that. My dad had to trade his tennis whites and silk shirts in for the blue workshirt and dark blue Levis of a working-class man; and my mother had to put her short skirts away in mothballs and change into her white uniform, put a hairnet over her bobbed hair, put on a pair of flat white workshoes, and go to work at a creamery wrapping sticks of butter at a penny a stick. So, NO, don't bury me on that Lone Prairie, though the only piece of property I own right now is my plot in a certain old cemetery in that town that was once my home, my native land, my "personal country," as my brother called it in one of his books on the Lone Prairie. My brother did want to be buried on the Lone Prairie, and he is buried on one of the loneliest parts of the Lone Prairie, on a rock bluff jutting out over that Lone Prairie, which spreads for 100s of miles out before that rock bluff like an ocean of the driest of bone-dry lands. A vista that will take a living person's breath away, but, I'm sure, is being thoroughly enjoyed by my brother's ghost, which I'm sure wanders all over that vast ancient ranch on which he's buried.

I tire. I'm tumbleweed rolling on off into the day.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

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The Daily Growler Interesting Shit Section

An Old Article (1990s) on Modems, Including the Difference Between Analog and
Digital--great article:

www.myhome.org/pg/modem.htm

Did You Ever Wonder Why Marijuana Is Illegal? Here Ya Go, Read This:

blogs.salon.com/0002762/stories/2003/12/22/whyIsMarijuanaIllegal.html

Thanks to L Hat for that one. Very complicated world we live in--especially "morally." Don't you hate moralists?

And Just When We Thought Jane Fonda Had Tamed Old Tom, He Comes Out of Arianna's Woodwork--Tom's pretty sharp, though, writing to Obama:

www.huffingtonpost.com/tom-hayden/obamas-wars_b_155669.html

From NANOvip.com Comes a Weird Article on Physics and Economic Growth

www.nanovip.com/node/54172

Same Old, Same Old Sunday

All Along the Watch Tower
"...the pervading principle and abiding test of good breeding is the requirement of a substantial and patent waste of time."

"There may be some considerable range of variation in detail within the scope of the principle, but they are variations of form and expression and not substance."

The Code of Properties: an expression of status: "Our bearing toward menials and other pecuniarily dependent inferiors is the bearing of the superior member in a relation of status...."

The sophistication of crude dominance: Decorum, Manners, the Code of Properties: "Witness the masterful presence of the high minded gentleman or lady, which testifies to so much of dominance and independence of economic circumstances, and which at the same time appeals with such convincing force to our sense of what is right and gracious."

"It is among this highest leisure class, who have no superiors and few peers, that decorum finds its fullest and maturest expression."

[All the above quotes are from Thorstein Veblen's The Theory of the Leisure Class.]

Gentlemen and ladies of leisure (re: Caroline Kennedy) and their decorum serve as "a canon of conduct for the classes beneath." Books of etiquette; manners; codes of conduct; finishing schools; prep schools; how to ride horseys; how to dress when on your yacht.

By bowing and scraping around these people we make them icons. We habitualize pretending to keep up with these people; yet, work, common ordinary stupid productive work, keeps us from becoming one of them.

Like why do we have to say "Your Honor" to a god-damn judge? "Eat me, your honor." The military is the perfect place to find the sort of decorum Thorstein Veblen refers to in the above quotes. Go to a military ball and see all the pomp and puffed up circumstance among the top Power Elite military types--like when General so and so and his ugly wife come into the room and all the lackeys freeze and salute and wait until they are recognized with a half-ass salute back from these ruthlessly prissy assholes.... Or, hey, go to something like the Golden Globe Awards that were held in Jokeywood on this eve and look at all the swell actors and actresses and their wives or husbands or paramours or lovers or "he's just a friend,"--and they're all wearing tuxes and the women are wearing outrageously expensive gowns--which they are paid to wear, folks, don't you know--and all that jewelry, too. "Hi, Gweneth, this is Jerry from Harry Winston. Are you booked for some bling already? No, oh, gosh, darling, that's great, because Harry has a stunning piece for you to wear--five grand in it for you, sweetie." Oh such decorum. Such decorum. Such distribution of honors and awards and meaningless trophies.

It wasn't my intention to start growling right off the bat today at the privileged classes who have brought this nation to a BRINK--while these assholes are backing their Brinks trucks up to the Federal money trough and carting away a trillion dollars of We the People's money--but then who the hell are We the People? I mean, come on, We the People have to work for a living--our leisure time is measured out stingily to us by our better-than-thou employers--those crooked high-blown bastards who'll jerk your plant (or your profession if you're white collar) right out from under your ass and truck it off to China where children can do the sleaze work you did at salaries 85% less than what they have to pay in worthless, lazy American workers's high-blown, Union-caused, profits-draining salaries--and the industry bigshots are screaming about how auto workers at a General Motors's American or Canadian plants make $75 an hour--and that's OUTRAGEOUS! and how can GM compete with the Toyota and Nissan and BMW US plants (mostly in the south)--of course, it's OK for a General Motors executive to be making $575 an hour (a salary of about 1 million a year)--fuck We the People workers. Obama says he's going to CHANGE all of that and create what goes up and down but stays around 1.4 million new jobs. I say Obama can't guarantee this, not with Robert Ruben (I see where he had to give up his CitiGroup job--poor bastard--at the same time we see CitiGroup ready to merge with that other just as crooked bunch of thugs Morgan-Stanley), one of the designers of deregulation, running his economic side of life; not with Larry Summers in a nonimpeachable role as an economic advisor--this is one of the originators of privatizing Social Security and dumping nuclear wastes in Third World countries--he still thinks "entitlements" as he calls them should be throttled; nor will we ever have peace: not with Robert Gates heading the Dept. of Defense; and not with Admiral Blair as head of National Security. Bad luck for We the People.

I watched the Obama family last night as they sneaked over to the Lincoln Memorial where they stayed and prayed, I guess, for over 20 minutes. OK, Obama wants to be the black Lincoln. Remember, Mr. Obama, Uncle Honest Abe wanted to send all the blacks to Liberia, which was created under his reign--"Let's ship 'em back to Africa," old rail-splittin' Abe advised, a white way of handling people we feel are beneath us. Of course, Abe got assassinated because of his flip-flopping on the Slavery question and eventually going with the Emancipation idea--some say he had to free the slaves so he could use them in the Union Army, which he did. Abe had the same problem Old Tom Jefferson had--he was maybe against slavery but then he did admit blacks, yes, were less than human in terms of brain size, intelligence, self-will, certainly less human than whites. This from a white aristocrat who was prowling around his slave quarters looking for fresh bedmates in the hot-younger women--especially that new fresh daughter Sally Hemmings--oooooh, what a hot piece of ass--and old Tom's dick roared to life when he first saw sweet Sally all naked and full-breasted and wide-hipped unlike his sickly white wife! 'Scuse my blasting away at our legends, our icons, our privileged Power Eliters--even those from our white past. Now in retrospect, the Tom Jefferson lovers are saying Tom wanted to write against slavery in the Constitution but at the last minute decided to leave blacks only part human beings--remember, the Constitution doesn't make us created equal--that's the Bill of Rights, which in my political way of thinking is a much more important document than the Constitution.

How about WOMEN's rights in our worn-out, obsolete Constitution!

Speaking of privilege, Prince Harry, while pretending to be just a plain ole soldier boy in the Brit Navy or army or whatever the hell branch of the military the Prince is pretending to play at--and that's what the Prince is doing in the military--he's playing--it's due to all the leisure time the bastard has--except, the Prince's high-and-mighty racism came out glaringly in a video-diary he recently kept of his pompous, lazy ass, which the hackers got a hold of and Harry's racist wit was all over commercial teevee yesterday, calling the lovable Pakistanis, Pakis--especially on Rupert Murdoch's American-Brit-Australian Fox teevee was this being constantly placed in evidence along with the comment that surely the lovable adorable Prince Harry was joshing a bit with his buddies in the trenches; why the big deal?--what a fop this son of a bitch Prince Harry is--a brazen-balled Brit fop. Of course he looks down his nose on Pakis! Underling subservients. "Oh, Gunga Din, my tea immediately!" He gets that from his great-greatgrandmother and his greatgrandfather who were possessors (owners) of Plantation Injah when it was one country, a mixture of Woggies and Pakis (I believe those were the proper British terms used to describe Indians and Pakistanis. This is the child, too, of America's Princess, remember?--the woman who spent more time out with the stable hands than she did giving Harry's old daddy (even though Harry really doesn't resemble "Super Nose Ugly Blimp Head" Prince Charlie--he used to be known as Bonnie Prince Charlie--looks like Harry got his looks from his Nazi bloodline) what he wanted. How easy a life is it that as a married Prince, old Prince Charles could meet his horse-face true love out in the middle of a muddy field for fucking while Princess Di was monkeying around with the stable hands or some captain of the knighted guard or some commoner lowlife without any decorum or manners. Princess Di, however, was said to be so graceful and kind, especially when she came to the US and always went straight to Harlem to be photo-op-ed with little boogie-woggie black babies. Old Queen "Pass Me My Bottle of Scotch" Liz also when she comes to NYC heads up to Harlem to hang with some little black babies. "I say, what cute little woolie boogers." Of course, I'm sure our own Princess Caroline Kennedy has spent some time with black babies in Harlem, too. Now, however, white folks are going to Harlem not for photo-ops with black babies but to buy up all the property up there and drive those little black babies out of Harlem--the property up there is more valuable than the life of thousands of black babies--soon Harlem will revert back to its original old white-Dutch model of tribal white purity. Slick Willie and Hillbilly Hill I'm sure are invested heavily in Harlem redevelopment. Bill probably still has several million from his and Old Pappy G.H.W. Bush's tsunami nonprofit organization invested in Harlem real estate. Ironically, today G.W. "Georgie Porgie the Worthless Son" Bush is down in Norfolk, Virginia, breaking a bottle of champagne over the bow of a new billion-dollar-boondoggle ship the Navy's naming the USS G.W.H. "Pappy" Bush. That privileged old oil-stealin'-CIA-head-China-asskisser asshole gets a Navy ship named after him. Did you feel that billion bucks for old Pappy's namesake ship being pickpocketed out of your purse or back pocket or bank account?

And just as I'm thinking, well, hell, I've got to dislodge myself from this political mess, this logjam of thoughts and reasoning. Like blacks telling me, "Oh, don't worry, Wolfie, Obama's a smart black man. He knows he has to walk a tight line when it comes to his being black and his maybe being a commie or a left-wing antisocial black--you know, a dichty black. He has to, according to my black friends--and Les Payne the black journalist, let his blackness be apparent in his appearance but not in his policies. He's unifying. He's community organizing. Black pundits say Obama knows the black situation--he has to being from the Chicago Southside like he is and married to a Chicago Southside woman who is surely black--and his daughters are surely black--so black pundits say that's black enough--therefore, he has to walk a thin line in terms of who he trusts in terms of his experience in this hotbed of a rather racist arena. So why not use these rascals who got us into the mess we're in, political, economical, cultural, structural, intellectual, to rectify it--they know how they fucked it up so Obama will now make them fix it. Does that make sense? It does to blacks.

Today, Obama announced he's keeping this McConnell character on his intelligence team. Oh Holy Shit! McConnell said this rendering or whatever it's called, where the CIA or FBI can profile your ass as a Muslim terrorist and whisked you off the street of any world city or village and fly your ass to Egypt or Syria or Afghanistan for tons of good ole legal torture--McConnell said the practice was a necessary tool in the fight against world terrorism--that's pronounced "Terrerism."

Shit, it looks like Obama was really serious when he said Ronald Raygun Reagan was a hero of his and that he respected his economic policies, thought they were the answer to the problem--oh Holy Fucking Back-stabbed Shit, that's what the fool said--I just reread it--then he backtracked and said it was misinterpreted what he said about his love of Reagan. Holy shit.

And Obama says in another speech he's against earmarks and there will be no more earmarks when he comes to power and then, son of a bitch, he nominates this creep Repugnican Ray LaHood (emphasis on the Hood, as in Hoodlum) as Transportation Sec'y--this creep is the Illinois state champion Congressman of earmarks--these porkbarrel giveaways of billions of dollars these crooked-as-snakes-at-night politicians write into our laws and bills--earmarks that cost We the People billions upon billions of dollars a year. Why? Politicians are earmarking billions to their campaign contributors as boondoggle money--favors--ah, the Power Elite and the sleaziest part of the Power Elite, the politicians! How sweet it is! What splendid liars they all are. They all should be rounded up and marched (how about a Trail of Tears for these bastards?) to the most faraway prison there is--march their worthless privileged asses barefoot to jail--Go directly to Jail--DO NOT PASS GO!

And Bush, this worthless piece of shit crooked and criminal and murdering faux president, this little chimplike creature who has literally wrecked our economy with his two Neo-Con prophesied invasions and occupations of nations that never attacked us, who had nothing to do with the attack on the World Trade Center or the Pentagon, if the Pentagon was a part of this 9/11 farce--and yet this little turd is going to get a free ride, moving to Dallas to a foreclosure deal he got cheap--and don't worry, We the People will make sure his new mansion is fully secure--we'll spend millions of bucks protecting this weasel and his pot-smoking wife and his two worthless drunken party-girl daughters. No prison for the Power Elite. Look at this Madoff character--a man who swindled his own sister--left her destitute--such a crooked asshole--and he's out on bond living in his billion-dollar Park Avenue apartment--45 rooms and 15 baths--absolutely necessary for the emulation needed by these asshole crooks. And I predict, Madoff will never spend a day in prison. "He's such a good boy."

Sorry, folks, my language needs to be salty and spicy and abrupt and disruptive and embarrassing to fucking more-pious-than-thous men and ninnie women and their ninnie children--it's cursing, folks. I'm blowing curses all over the joint. I watched a PBS production of Cyrano de Bergerac t'other eve and I hadn't realized the ability of Cyrano to ridicule and curse and insult the way he did, very poetically, I might add--the actor playing Cyrano was superb--though he did get off his time occasionally--but then that script is a tough son of bitch to pull off and once he got his timing down, he succeeded in delivering long complicated curses and insults with de Bergerac grace and nosey delight--especially the scene where he's mocking the fop Prince, the Prince of Morons--and de Bergerac calls him a Fop, too, an F--OH--PEE fop--and he's taunting him to go on and make fun of his proboscis extreme--and he goes through a long categorized list of insults about his nose--the general said, "Point your nose toward the enemy and fire." I enjoyed about 30 minutes of this actor's Cyrano railing mercilessly at every idiot around him, and to him, everybody around him is an idiot or a moron or a fop. Wonderful stuff. I must read the book.

A Seattle journalist named David Heath has written thoroughly about earmarks and how they're used by politicians to the tune of billions of dollars a year. Obama was himself a purveyor of earmarks while an Illinois Congressman. Hillary Clinton was one of the biggest earmark provider there ever was. Now Hill's campaign warchest is broke and she's having to go out and beg for contributions. "Hey, Hill, just write some more earmarks for your friends in some nutjob bill or act or rule that's coming up for vote this session." David Heath shows you how Congress hides earmarks, which are supposed to be transparent, but since politicians and CEOs and crooks don't like transparency, they found ways to keep them transparent and hidden at the same time.

Oh well. Don't you think it's so considerate that Obama's going to honor John McCain at his inauguration and have a right-wing fundie Jesus jockey give his inauguration prayer?--and why is it necessary to have a prayer before the inauguration?--or even to swear on a Christian holy book of fables? What a bunch of silly shit.

This dude Leo Girard, head of the Steel Workers Union, I like a lot. He's a cool dude. From Sudbury, Ontario, Canada, one of the most polluted cities in North America due to the many mines and smelters around the "Nickel Capital of the World" as it was one time called. The Sudbury air is full of sulphuric acid.

I'm tired. The Giants lost to the lowly Philadelphia Eagles today in local pro football action. The mighty Giants with their mighty invincible Manning boy couldn't overwhelm the beat-up old Philly Eagles. As a kid I loved the Eagles--especially the team that had Sonny Jurgenson at quarterback--they had Norm Van Brocklin at one time, too. I loved the Bill Parcels Giants--what a great team that was--with Phil Simms at quarterback. But this one was a great pro football game--close all the way the way sports entertainment should be.

atiredandworngrowlingwolf
for The Sunday Daily Growler